Mitchel waited, impatiently ruffling his hair with his hand. At the other houses around him, the older teenagers of the households were slowly making their way out the door and down the street. Mitchel watched them warily, before Annie returned with no dishes in sight.

The two walked side-by-side, feeling the cold ground snap beneath their feet. Mitchel knew Annie’s shoes were not thick enough— they had been worn down by a few years of intense use and had not been replaced. A new set of household supplies would not be granted to their family for another two weeks, and even then, new shoes were unlikely.

“So…?”

“We were discussing if he should go to the Human Medical Facility or not,” Annie sighed and stopped as they reached the small crowd of teens.

Mitchel frowned and mulled over his thoughts as they waited for the bus to arrive.

The Rwequek from last night had suggested the same thing.

“What did you say?”

“I said that he should. He needs help.”

“I gave him pain meds last night and this morning,” he offered.

Annie gave him an odd look.

“That’s not going to help him forever,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Still…” Mitchel protested.

Even if she had not known that a guard had hurt Winston, the idea that Annie was so willing to get help from them made Mitchel uncomfortable. Though Mitchel’s anger at whoever hurt Winston had been quietly simmering during his reading session, it had now rekindled. He would burn every Rwequek into his memory today.

“He’s acting… strange. Like he’s not all there,” Annie said, her voice gruff and resolute, “And you didn’t sound pleased about his wound. He needs professional help.”

Mitchel folded his arms anxiously, not speaking for a moment. In their silence, a large bus-like vehicle pulled up near the crowd and opened its door for the workers to pile in. When Mitchel hesitated to get on, Annie placed a hand on his shoulder. Her eyebrows were taunt with resolve.

“Let’s make a decision tonight,” she said and jerked her head to their self-driving transportation. “We can’t worry about it right now, or we’ll get nothing done.”

“Okay,” Mitchel breathed, feeling the tenseness of his muscles diminish.

With so many people trying to get on, it was hard for Mitchel and Annie to maneuver up the big steps. Annie managed to get in before him and selected a window seat near the middle. Mitchel plopped down beside her. He slouched into the seat as much as he could, hoping to decompress. Beside him, Annie had her head propped up by her hand.

He yawned.

“It’s the beginning of the day,” Mitchel huffed, “Why am I so tired?”

“You did choose to wake up before dawn,” Annie quirked a smile into her palm.

Mitchel groaned.

“I know you’re right, but I don’t wanna hear it.”

Annie chose not to reply but raised an eyebrow. After a beat, she reached into her work bag and begun to pull out its contents.

“Get on your uniform, or we’ll be there before you’re ready,” she said.

“Fine.”

He looked into his working pouch, where his mask, gloves, and eyepiece lay. He opened the mask by unzipping the back leather, where his neck would be, before placing it on his face and tested it with a prod of his finger. Once the nosepiece was settled correctly, he pinched the ends of the mask with his right hand and pulled the zipper up with his left, securing the neckpiece. He then wrapped the straps around his ear so the mask was taunt against his face and blew in a breath. The tiny box that filtered clean air rattled.

Unsatisfied, Mitchel pressed the nosepiece down until the surface melded to his face and he continued until all sides of the mask were flat and skintight. The air box no longer rattled and instead let out a small chh noise, signaling it was fully functional. He then slipped the eyepiece over his right ear, flipping up the screen as to not turn it not quite yet, and slipped his durable gloves on to complete his work attire. Annie glanced over at him with her gear mirroring his and gave a small nod of approval.

As the scenery passed by, Mitchel allowed his growing anger to be overcome by a good memory. He remembered back to when he and his father had flown to Italy all the way from home in Oregon. It had been so hot that all of their jeans were rendered useless, and they had to buy new shorts as they travelled the Northern coastal line. His dad had loved the way the houses were shaped— apartments by the beach were bright with garish colors, while others in tiny towns were squeezed so closely together it looked like their insides would pop. The cobblestone streets in the downtown area had clapped under Mitchel’s feet, and were filled with people sitting at café tables with a drink or glancing through open window shops. Everyone was talking all at once, and while the words became muddled, at some moments it felt to Mitchel like a song. It had dips and curves and screeches of laughter and words that seemed to intertwine as if everyone knew each other. They were all connected by the language that poured out of their mouths and even though Mitchel did not know any Italian, he could hear the hints of French and the rolls of Spanish like a strange blend of cultures that was unique on its own ground.

It was his first memory of completely adoring language.

“Mitch.”

“Huh?” Pulled away from the memory, he felt disorganized.

Annie stared at him oddly. “We're almost here,” she explained.

“I guess we are,” he realized, wiping his eyes. “I must be really tired.”

He was glad he had not recalled the savory, hearty flavors of Italian cuisine…

Growl.

Well. He tried.

“Ready?” Annie asked, her voice slightly muffled by her mask, as the vehicle squealed to a stop.

“Yeah.”

He got up, grabbed his bag, and slipped by the row of people struggling to get up and out of the bus. He could faintly feel Annie’s hand on his shoulder as she tried to stay with him through the busy, rumbling crowd.

The air was still chilly and bit at the exposed portion of Mitchel’s neck. He rubbed some feeling into his fingers and tried to jostle his adrenaline by shuffling his feet. Looking around, Mitchel took in the dirt hills and morning sunshine, and thought it would be somewhat beautiful in different circumstances. However, the changes done to the scenery made everything feel slightly warped. All of the foliage had died from their constant work on the mountain, and Mitchel did not know what the Rwequeks had done to the wildlife. The crisp air was missing a bird’s song, but it had been years since Mitchel had heard something so natural.

Instead, the morning was filled with a whirring noise, coming from the Rwequek contraption Annie and Mitchel approached. It resembled a conveyer belt with a moving pad pushing empty buckets up into a sealed bright blue container. There was a large screen towards the beginning of the belt accompanied by a scanner and keypad.

Both of the them grabbed for the equipment laying at the base of the contraption and slung them onto their backs.

“You gonna come with me?” Annie questioned and motioned westward.

Mitchel was silent as he shifted the equipment in attempt to get comfortable.

Winnie wouldn’t want you fighting his battles.

Winston’s hazelnut eyes and warm smile flashed before him like a ghost.

But then again, he wouldn’t fight in the first place. The least I could do is get some justice for him.

“I think I’m going north,” he answered decidedly.

“Why?” Annie’s voice was filled with suspicion.

“I have to pay off my debt to the haggler somehow,” he shrugged, the lie slipping out easily. “I’ll try my luck where Winnie usually works.”

Turning serious, Annie grabbed hold of his shoulder. “You think you can do that without starting a fight?”

Annie was too perceptive. She had not even known Mitchel’s true motives, but it was as if his expression was transparent to her.

His demeanor soured. I won’t start a fight… But I’ll at least get to see which sick freak hurt my friend.

“Mitch.”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. And use that head of yours.”

“Okay,” Mitchel sighed in resignation, pushing her hand away and pointing a finger. “Don’t start any fights either.”

She gave him a firm nod.

As they parted ways, he could tell she shared the same feelings. They would try their absolute best to help Winston and repay their debt— even if it meant they would silence their cynicism with the guards.

He stared up at the trail that went northward until he squared his shoulders and began his trek to Winston’s usual spot. It would be a long workday with the debt resting dutifully on his shoulders. He knew the guard from yesterday had not taken his ID number, but he flipped on his eyepiece worriedly and looked at his quota.

6 units.

Mitchel sighed in relief. It was the same as everyone in his working class [6]. He knew his fear of increasing quota was ungrounded, but his trust in the Rwequeks was near nothing. If they would find a way to make his life miserable, they would manage.

If I just work two or three hours of overtime, I can hit 8 units.

Mitchel bit his lip as he clicked his eyepiece to the Oblinium setting and watched the ground. Instead of translating Rwequekian as it had done in the morning, now the eyepiece interpreted his surroundings and attempted to locate his quota.

The left side of the trail where the hill grew flat, there was a large electric blue mass on his eyepiece. Other teenagers were already starting to work, but they had not claimed this particular spot.

Cracking his knuckles to spark some life into his fingers, he grabbed his equipment and settled down on the ground.

Time to put in some work.

Without the Rwequek gear, the ground appeared impenetrable: dried by the sun in day and frozen over in frost by night. Mitchel began to sort through his equipment. One piece was a long rod with an oscillator at the top and a dulled tip at the bottom. Heaving, he broke the ground with the appropriate side. It barely breached the surface, but it was enough. Bracing against the equipment, Mitchel turned the machine on.

The cylinder shook back and forth, slow at first, until it gained speed and made his teeth chatter with the force. The hum shattered the fragility in the air and raced through the ground like an earthquake; and, in few moments, a circle of hard earth reduced to dust. Mitchel’s mask went to work as it filtered out the air filled with dust and rock particles.

Turning off the machine was a hassle with all the shaking, but Mitchel managed and removed a small tube from its side. It sucked up the small pieces of debris and shot it backwards away from his work site.

Once the first layer was cleared, Mitchel repeated the process a few times and watched as the bright electric blue came into focus. Finally, when the hole had grown four feet deep in the ground, his eyepiece clearly displayed the football-sized rock. He checked the time out of curiosity and found that it had taken him over an hour to just to get a glimpse at the Oblinium. Even in the cool of the morning, the back of his neck was slick with sweat.

Before he could celebrate, he had to get it out. He did have one more device to help him— an accordion-looking contraption that he wedged under the rock and turned on with a flick of a switch. Slowly, the rock began to rise out of the rubble.

When it was level to the ground, he turned it off.

Storing the device away, he braced himself and began lifting. Picking up the rock was similar to heaving a tire— awkward and heavy. But luckily for him, he had experience and knew how to squat so his back would not break. As he took his first step, a tight breath of air left his mouth. He bit down and pushed through the tension.

Once he made it back to the conveyer belt, he deposited the load into one of the buckets. Mitchel moved his eyepiece out of the way and the rock lost the dazzling electric color— lack luster of any kind of importance. It looked like a regular rock. Only the piece of technology showed him its significance.

Mitchel tried not to dwell on the irony that controlled his life and watched the conveyer belt.

The screen above him flared to life. In Rwequekian, it asked for his ID number.

He entered the line D.3[6]256.117.

A little bar displayed in blue how far he was from his quota. Mitchel could only weakly smile.

Only two units of Oblinium complete.

He squared his shoulders and returned back onto the trail. Overhead, the sun was high enough that its heat was palpable on Mitchel’s skin. It was late enough in the morning that Rwequekian guards were patrolling the area, Mitchel realized while searching for his next quota. They were congregating on the flat portion of the hill and talking to each other as they watched the humans work. Mitchel felt a flare of anger and his gripped his equipment bag tightly.

Don’t mess this up. Just observe them. Get some info. 

Mitchel tried his best to casually approach the area, looking for a speck of blue where he could simultaneously mine and watch the guards. He found a small deposit and emptied out his gear while flickering his gaze up to the Rwequeks every few moments.

There were three of them. While each sported the signature Rwequek look— white hair, unnervingly translucent skin, midnight blue uniforms— each had an interesting flourish of personality that Mitchel was determined to memorize. He had never cared about differentiating them before. They had all come to Earth and equally messed up Mitchel’s life. Individuals did not matter.

But an individual had hurt Winston. And Mitchel would not forget them.

Mitchel picked out the most formidable guard first. His closely shaven white beard enunciated his jawline and made his glare appear sharper, more intense. A crawling scar cut from his left cheek, through his beard, and disappeared underneath the collar of his skintight suit. He intentionally had his weapon exposed, not hidden by a black box like the other two guards. Across his stomach was a sleek fitting waistband and from it dangled three or four brightly colored braided chords. The golds, purples, and greens of the chords contrasted so heavily to the sleek and dark outfit of the guards that Mitchel could not help but stare out of curiosity.

The guard last night also had a chord, he thought and drove his equipment into the ground.

“I get it. You have family. I’ve got family too.” The guard had said while tugging at the accessory.

Mitchel looked to the two other guards, who seemed to be listening intently to what the first one was saying. The second guard also had chords, draped around his neck, in a waterfall of green and gold. His waistband, too, was gold and was half hidden under an additional jacket. The final guard chin-length hair was split down the middle and kept ducking in front of his turquoise eyes when he agreed to something.

An unsettling feeling lay on Mitchel’s chest as he worked.

What had that guard meant? Mitchel thought angrily. Was he trying to relate to me? Earn sympathy?

“Get up.”

Mitchel snapped to attention.